


i built you a home in my heart

by newamsterdam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Adulthood, Cohabitation, Dating, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Future Fic, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Yaku doesn’t let Kuroo derail him. “You don’t even have that excuse. And I’ve known you and Kenma too long to think that these feelings didn’t exist, before today.”</p>
  <p>There’s a truth in what he says. Kuroo’s chest feels too small to contain his heart, beating giddily against his ribs. Even if he falls into his usual back and forth with Yaku, everything is different today.</p>
  <p>“It’s not like that,” he says softly. He cups both hands around his mug, looking into the dregs of his coffee. “It’s like… I couldn’t even let myself think of it before, you know? I couldn’t let my mind even go there, because it would’ve been unbearable, to know and not be able to do anything about it.”</p>
  <p>Yaku shakes his head, kicking at Kuroo’s legs under the table. “Oh my god,” he says. “You’re going to be hopeless now, aren’t you?”</p>
</blockquote>Five years after high school— what changes, what doesn't, and what really matters, in the end.
            </blockquote>





	i built you a home in my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sodappend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodappend/gifts).



> dear sodappend,
> 
> i too love kuroken and levyaku, and am fond of happy endings. so i put those things in a blender and this is what resulted. i really hope you enjoy it!
> 
> thanks to my small team of betas who beat this into something readable.
> 
> and the title is from death cab for cutie's "crooked teeth."

He races off of the train, dodging his way past students and women with groceries and the odd mid-day commuter. His reflexes are good, but he still gets an elbow or two in the stomach for his troubles. Grimacing, he ducks around the ticket counters and past the revolving barricade, out into the sunlight.

Kenma’s waiting for him, leaning against a pillar with his nose pointed downwards to his phone. The sun is bright overhead, shining through the bleached strands of his hair. Despite the sun, there’s a chill in the air, and Kenma’s wearing the long, oversized sweatshirt that Kuroo bought him for his last birthday. It’s forest green, emblazoned with a glimmering golden triforce symbol on the front and the outline of the Master Sword diagonally across the back. It comes down to his knees, his legs clothed in black leggings beneath it.

Kuroo can’t help but notice the gentle slope of Kenma’s shoulders, the way his posture is relaxed even though he’s tapping through something on his phone. This time two years ago, he would’ve been hunched over, hiding from the world.

“You’re late,” Kenma says, without looking up.

He can’t even be surprised that Kenma’s noticed his presence. Frowning, he says, “You were supposed to wait inside for me, remember?”

“You were an hour and a half late,” Kenma reiterates. He shakes his head, thumbing his phone back to its home screen before tucking it away. “I wasn’t going to wait that long. My bag is heavy.” He kicks lightly at his backpack, balanced against the wall beside him. It does look impossibly overstuffed, zippers pulled taught.

“What do you even have in there?” Kuroo laughs, reaching down to pull the backpack up and over one of his shoulders. He grunts with the effort.

Kenma looks up at him and blinks. “My textbooks. My laptop. Chargers, for that and my phone. A notebook. All my pens and pencils. My wallet. An extra pair of socks. My PSP and its case. An apple. A water bottle.”

He seems set to keep going, but Kuroo holds up both his hands. “I get it, I get it. Basically your entire life, right?”

Kenma shrugs. “I’m not going to take the train forty-five minutes home if I forget something.”

Kuroo tuts, shaking his head as he and Kenma begin walking down the sidewalk. Kenma doesn’t reach for his bag back. “This is why commuting sucks. You should’ve found a place on campus.”

“You’ve lived in your apartment for a year, and you still don’t have furniture,” Kenma responds flatly.

“I have a futon,” Kuroo protests. “And there are a million desks in the library, why do I need one at home?”

“You don’t even have a table to eat on.”

“I’m surprisingly okay with that.” He runs a hand through his hair, letting his feet carry him down the familiar streets by muscle memory. “Besides, just because my place is bare bones doesn’t mean yours would be. You’re such a packrat, I’m sure you’d fill up any apartment in no time.”

Kenma wrinkles his nose. “Too much effort.”

Kuroo huffs a laugh. “I figured it was something like that. And I’ll admit it’s fun to see you running around campus with this thing on your back. You look like a turtle.”

“I do not.” Kenma purses his lips, face tightening like he’s just sucked on a slice of lemon.

“You totally do,” Kuroo assures him. “You’ve gotta be top heavy, too. I bet one day you’ll fall over onto your back and won’t be able to get back up.” He demonstrates by holding up one hand, pointing it vertically straight before tipping it over flat and horizontal.

“That’s not going to happen, Kuro.”

“You sure? This thing weighs about fifteen tons. And you’re not working out regularly, anymore.”

“I’ve managed so far.” Stubbornly, Kenma reaches for the dangling strap of his backpack, trying to tug it back from Kuroo. Kuroo holds fast, and Kenma ends up being pulled along in time with Kuroo’s longer strides, holding tight to the strap of his bag. “ _Kuro_.”

Kuroo turns his head and flashes a sly smile. “Yes?”

Kenma shakes his head, exasperated. “You’re going to look like an old man, wearing that jacket to the match.”

He glances down at himself, his typical ensemble of darkwash jeans and a loose t-shirt paired with his old, comfortably worn Nekoma jacket. He huffs in mock offense. “I’m showing pride and support for my team.”

“You look like you haven’t moved on,” Kenma mutters. “They changed the jacket, this year. Now there are white stripes on the sleeves.”

“Inuoka changed the design without asking me?” Kuroo demands, scandalized.

Kenma blinks at him. “Sou’s the captain, now. Not you.”

Kuroo frowns. “I know that,” he grumbles.

“Then stop acting like nothing’s changed since you were in high school,” Kenma says matter-of-factly, stepping around Kuroo to step through the school gate first. It isn’t Nekoma High, but the bigger gymnasium where the district-wide tournaments are held every year is almost as familiar to the two of them.

Kuroo’s still grumbling under his breath as they stake a claim in the bleachers, tucking their bags at their feet and looking out over the respectable crowd decked out in red, black and white.

“Where’s Yaku?” Kenma asks, craning his neck to see over the crowd.

“Down there.” Kuroo points a few rows ahead to the front of the bleachers, where Yaku is sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, chin against his knees.

“Why didn’t he come with you?” Kenma frowns. “You two aren’t fighting again, are you?”

Kuroo presses his lips together. “Of course not,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “He’s just been antsy all week. Said he had to be here early, for some reason.”

Kenma blinks twice. “ _Oh_.”

“What, oh?” Kuroo demands, turning towards him.

Kenma looks thoughtful, his amber eyes taking on the far-away look that Kuroo’s most used to seeing when he’s strategizing during a match or trying to figure out how best to take on a final boss. “Nothing,” he says finally.

“It’s obviously not nothing,” Kuroo says. “Tell me.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet,” Kenma mutters.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Shut up and just watch the match, Kuro.”

He doesn’t mean to let himself be distracted, but his heart does light up with no small amount of pride when he sees Nekoma’s current team marching onto the court, lead by Inuoka, Shibayama and Lev. Lev looks up in the stands and catches sight of Kenma, waving wildly before his gaze drifts further down. Kuroo sees the exact moment that Lev’s eyes settle on Yaku. His pale cheeks take on a rosy hue, and he stumbles his footing, crashing into Inuoka.

“Hopeless,” Kenma murmurs, covering his face in one hand.

Despite that display, Lev’s built up no small amount of grace on the court. Nekoma never made it to the InterHigh finals when Kuroo was captain, but Inuoka leads his team against Itachiyama with aplomb. He, Lev and Shibayama form a formidable triangle of strategy, aided by the second year setter that Kenma had trained last year and the gaggle of other faces who’d joined the team after Kuroo had graduated. He knows their names from visits back, but he doesn’t really _know_ this team like he did his own. But he’s still proud of every spike, block and receive, just as much as he had been when it had been him, Kai and Yaku leading the team.

“They’re pretty good, huh?” he mutters to Kenma as the second set ends, the score tied.

Kenma shrugs. “Lev’s built up power, to match his height. And Sou and Yuuki have always been solid. They go unnoticed while Lev takes all of the attention, but they’re really holding the team together.”

“They’re really letting him shine, aren’t they?” Kuroo says, unable to keep the fondness from his voice. For all that Lev had been a constant frustration, Kuroo wouldn’t have spent any time on him at all if he hadn’t thought the results would be worth it. And now, impossibly tall with the skill to match, Lev is an ace his team can be proud of.

“Our team’s always been good at adapting to what we each needed from it.” Kenma shrugs, like he hadn’t just claimed the team as his own, as if he hadn’t just implied that his place at the center of it for two years was what he’d needed.

Kuroo feels something clench tight around his heart and squeeze. He blinks down at himself, one hand over his chest. He’s been feeling this way a lot, lately, even though the sensation isn’t physical. It had been acute, when Kenma had casually announced he’d be attending the same university as him. Since then, it’s never quite gone away, although at time it feels sharper, closer to heart.

The last set drags on, too close to call before the very end. Lev makes more points than Itachiyama’s new ace, who’s skilled but can’t fill the hole left by Sakusa.

The hallways are packed to bursting with players and coaches and well-wishers—sweaty high schoolers who are either euphoric or devastated, the emotions and particular smell permeating through the small space. It takes Kuroo back in time two years, to the bitter defeat against Fukurodani and the unbelievable victory against Nohebi. Everything that had come after was emotionally-charged, but it was that day that he’d really felt as though his hard work might pay off. And, of course, Kenma had been at his side all the while.

Nekoma’s current team is huddled together, tears in their eyes and smiles splitting their faces. Lev towers over the rest of his teammates, a beacon for anyone else looking for them. But Kuroo and Kenma don’t make it there first.

Yaku stands a few feet away from the crowd, lips pulled down into a thoughtful frown as he pulls at the hem of his red button-down and looks pointedly at anyone but Lev. Shibayama spots him first, coming over and throwing his arms around Yaku, laughing gleefully. Yaku looks surprised for only half a moment before he’s smiling, too, patting Shibayama on the back and praising him. Kuroo spots the new first year libero looking on in awe, his eyes as round as the moon.

“Remember when Shibayama used to look like that?” Kuroo asks Kenma, smirking.

“He still looks like that,” Kenma returns. “He’s only grown three centimeters since first year.”

The scene lasts for only a moment, because then Shibayama is pulling away, and Lev is stepping forward. He has his arms spread wide, like he’s expecting a hug, too, but then he stops short, like he’s recognizing Yaku for the first time.

“Yaku-san, you came!” If it’s possible, Lev looks even happier now.

Yaku’s cheeks stain a dull pink and he turns his head. “Of course I did. Kuroo and Kenma are here, too.” He waves at them vaguely, and Kuroo blinks. He hadn’t realized Yaku had spotted them, his attention seems so scattered.

Lev takes another step forward, more hesitant than Kuroo’s ever seen him. His pale skin is flushed all over, his silvery hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and his jersey hanging off of him limply. He’s still gangly and a little bit awkward, but he’s filled out over the past few years. His shoulders are a bit broader, his arms more toned with muscle.

The entire scene is jarring, for some reason. It’s a cognitive dissonance that Kuroo hasn’t wanted to fully consider, but now has to. This is no longer his team, and the kouhai he had trained are now heading off to Nationals on their own. Nothing has stayed stagnant.

“Yaku-san,” Lev says, more softly. “Can I ask you something?”

Yaku’s face turns a furious shade of crimson. “Here? _Now_?”

Lev blinks and looks around, completely unperturbed by their audience. He nods enthusiastically.

Yaku scuffs his toe against the linoleum tiling of the hallway, looking down at the ground. “You’re hopeless,” he mutters, before continuing, louder, “I’m not going to be able to stop you, am I?”

Now Lev shakes his head. “No,” he says, cheerful.

Yaku bites down on a smile. “Fine. Go ahead.”

Lev reaches out and grabs Yaku’s hands in both of his, his broad palms and long fingers dwarfing Yaku’s hands. “Yaku-san,” he says solemnly, “I really, really like you. I like you so much.”

“Holy shit,” Kuroo mutters, before Kenma elbows him in the side and shushes him.

Yaku makes a sound like he’s choking. “That wasn’t a question.”

Still holding tight to Yaku’s hands, Lev bows over them. “Please go out with me! –I mean, will you go out with me? Please?”

This time, Yaku doesn’t even try to suppress his smile. He pulls his hands out of Lev’s grip and reaches out to ruffle his hair, his gaze exasperated but fond. “Yes,” he says, and before Lev can respond he claps a hand over his mouth. “But only if you promise never to embarrass me like this again.”

“I’m not embarrassing,” Lev declares. Then, he reaches down and grabs Yaku around the waist, hoisting him into the air while Yaku shrieks. “Everyone’s happy for us, see?”

As if on queue, the gathering Nekoma players and sundry break into applause, hooting and hollering their congratulations.

“Get it, Lev!” Inuoka calls out. Kuroo turns to gape at him, and the new captain smiles sheepishly. “He’s been waiting to say that for almost three years. _You_ aren’t the one who has to hear about it all night, at every training camp.”

Yaku thumps his fists against Lev’s chest until he’s finally set on his feet, again, but Kuroo catches the way he reaches out and grabs Lev’s wrist, tugging him close. The enthusiastic atmosphere, sparked by victory, is only amplified now. Inuoka leads the team to the locker room, and then they all meet at their favorite ramen shop for a meal worthy of their victory.

Hours later, Kuroo’s stomach is full and his lips won’t pull away from their giddy smile. “You think Yaku ever would’ve said anything?” He asks Kenma as they walk vaguely in the direction of the train station.

Kenma’s back to tapping through his phone. He shrugs. “Who knows?”

“You, definitely,” Kuroo tells him. “You always know everything about everyone.”

Kenma looks skyward, like he’s praying for strength. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at reading people, too?”

“I am,” Kuroo declares. He hadn’t had anything to drink, at dinner, but he’s a little bit tired and the food sits heavy in his stomach, making him feel slightly drunk, anyway. “I mean, I thought Lev had a thing for you, in his first year. But Yaku’s always liked him, even if he was too proud to say anything.”

Kenma wrinkles his nose. “Don’t be ridiculous.” And then, after a moment’s pause, he says thoughtfully, “These things work themselves out.”

Kuroo blinks down at him. “You think so?”

Kenma shrugs. “If you’re lucky.” Then he pulls Kuroo away from a fork in the road. “You’re not riding the train tonight. Come sleep at your mom’s, and then we’ll go back to school together in the morning.”

“My first class is at nine,” Kuroo sing-songs. “You’re gonna wake up early, for me?”

Kenma’s lips press into a firm line. “Unless you make me change my mind in the next ten minutes.”

Kuroo laughs. “I won’t, I won’t.”

It’s a much shorter walk back to the neighborhood where both of their families have lived for most of their lives. It’ll be nice, Kuroo thinks, to ride the train to school with Kenma in the morning. Like nothing’s changed at all, even though everything has.

“Hey,” he says quietly, pausing in the cool night air just before Kenma’s house. “Your bag’s still way too heavy. Bring some stuff tomorrow, and you can leave it at my place.”

Kenma pauses his furious play of TsumTsum and tilts his head to look Kuroo in the eye. “What?”

“Your stuff.” Kuroo gestures widely. “Your socks and your chargers and your extra books. You can leave them at my apartment, since it’s only a few minutes from campus. Better than carrying it all around, yeah?”

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” Kenma asks blandly.

“No,” Kuroo says, because until this moment he hadn’t thought of it like that. “I don’t think so? Unless you want to. That could actually be a really good idea.”

Kenma shakes his head, nudging Kuroo down the sidewalk. “You don’t have any furniture.”

“I could get some,” Kuroo insists.

“But you won’t,” Kenma tells him.

“I will,” Kuroo says, nodding to himself.

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

\--

As it turns out, they both acquire various pieces of furniture over the course of the next year. Kenma buys the low, blackwood desk that he can use while sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Kuroo caves and acquires a dining table with space for two a few weeks later. The chairs are mismatched, but they serve their purpose. The pillows, on the other hand, are entirely too numerous to serve any real function, but they keep getting more and more, until there’s a mountain of them stacked in one corner. The TV cabinet takes a bit of pre-planning, because it needs to be large enough to balance all of Kenma’s gaming systems. Kuroo’s proud of the light in Kenma’s eyes when he opens his birthday present that year, the cabinet plus matching shelves to mount above it on the wall. He spends the day after his birthday lounging in a nest of pillows while directing Kuroo’s construction, telling him the shelves aren’t straight or that he’s using the wrong type of screw.

The first thing they buy together is a second futon, but it never ends up getting much use.

Nearly a year after Kenma first started leaving his extra books, and a few weeks after his nineteenth birthday, the day is warm and sticky despite the rain pelting the windows of their small apartment. Kuroo wakes up feeling too hot, edging away from the small furnace tucked against his side before he realizes it's Kenma, curled up around him.

Things have changed, in the past few months. Kuroo never used to feel this way when he and Kenma would share a bed, even when they’d grown out of the age where that was generally considered acceptable. But lately he’s found his gaze lingering on Kenma’s every move, the way his head tilts as he gazes at his computer screen, or the gentle curve of his golden hair against his jaw and neck. He’s always known that Kenma is special, but it’s only been recently that Kuroo has realized how personal that feeling is—Kenma is special _to him_ , more than anyone else ever could be.

And yet therein lies his dilemma, because it’s eleven o’clock on a Saturday and his best friend and roommate has once again curled up inside his futon, and Kuroo is hard.

He tells himself he’s going to get up immediately and get in the shower, so by the time Kenma wakes up he can pretend that this never happened. But before he can muster up the willpower he reaches out and strokes his thumb gently across Kenma’s cheekbone, feeling the softness and warmth of his skin. A heaviness builds behind his eyes, almost as if he’s about to cry. But it isn’t the same feeling—it’s tenderness, and affection, and a deep sense of contentment that he’s never felt before. He could lie here with Kenma beside him, frozen in time, and never want to move out of this moment.

The moment stretches on too long. Before Kuroo can move away, Kenma blinks open his amber eyes and looks up at Kuroo with fuzzy confusion. Kuroo freezes, his hand still against Kenma’s cheek, as Kenma’s eyes clear and he looks directly at Kuroo with unmistakable understanding.

“Kenma—” Kuroo starts, panic rising in the back of his throat. But he never gets the chance to finish the thought, because Kenma slides impossible closer to him, their legs tangling as Kenma tilts his chin up and gently kisses Kuroo’s lips, swallowing down his excuses.

It’s a little bit weird, being kissed by his best friend as the morning bleeds into the afternoon, the air hot and humid around them. Kuroo tastes the staleness of morning in Kenma’s mouth, and their mouths fall off center so that he’s conscious of how rough his cheeks must feel against Kenma’s lips.

But also, none of that matters. Because this feels like one more extension of the warmth and rightness he’s always felt around Kenma, and before he can think about it too much he kisses Kenma back, peppering his face with soft, glancing touches of his lips. Kenma squirms against him, the breath leaving him in soft, contented little sighs.

“Kenma,” Kuroo tries to start again, in between exploring the novelty of Kenma’s skin with his lips, the taste of his skin, “Is this—do you want—”

Kenma pushes back so that Kuroo can feel the full force of his stare, the judgment that radiates from his golden eyes and the hard set of his jaw. “Yes,” he says simply. “Always.”

He can’t help it. He starts laughing before he even realizes it, a gurgling sound that grows rougher and jumpier the longer it continues. The pressure is back, behind his eyes, and rather than trying to process everything he’s feeling he smashes his face into Kenma’s stomach and lets Kenma rub his hands across Kuroo’s shoulders as he shakes and trembles.

Just as he begins to feel more in control of himself, Kenma starts kissing him again, on the top of his head and then the tip of his nose. He tugs at the old t-shirt that Kuroo wears to sleep, pulling it up and over Kuroo’s arms and then buries his face between the juncture of Kuroo’s neck and shoulder, running his hands across Kuroo’s bare skin. Kuroo can feel the breath of Kenma’s words as he mutters something against his skin.

“Huh?”

“You’re so slow, Kuro.”

And now he’s laughing again, and murmuring apologies for making Kenma wait. It might be the headiness of the atmosphere or the intoxicating blend of emotions, but the rest of the morning passes by like a dream—both distant and close, all at once, details standing out starkly but the entire picture blurred like chalk art after a night’s rain.

They pull off the rest of their clothes slowly, fingertips and lips tracing each new spot of skin as it’s revealed. Kuroo grips Kenma around the waist, holding him close as Kenma reaches down between them. They’ve always been good with comfortable silences, and it’s no different now as Kenma strokes Kuroo slowly. They don’t speak, even as Kuroo’s breathing grows more ragged. Kenma’s touches are light, experimental, but he keeps one hand pressed against Kuroo’s chest, and seems to take his cues from the rhythm of Kuroo’s heartbeat. Kuroo isn’t really aware of what Kenma’s doing at all, except that it feels so good, and he’s warm, and stupidly in love.

He comes with Kenma’s name on his lips, fingertips digging into his hips.

It takes him a few moments to catch his breath, but as soon as he does he nudges Kenma over onto his back, ignoring the mess on his stomach and across the futon. He leans over Kenma, kissing his mouth once and then twice, for good measure, before he slides lower. He kisses the center of Kenma’s chest, and then the spot above his heart. He trails his fingers down Kenma’s sides, against the soft skin of his inner thighs. Kenma trembles and giggles in turns, shifting as Kuroo follows his fingers with his lips and tongue. He comes apart slowly underneath Kuroo’s hands, his release a soft sigh and eyelids fluttering shut.

They lay against each other for a long moment, breathing heavily and uncertain now that the tension between them is broken. Kuroo’s head feels heavy, and he wonders if he could get away with spending the entire day in bed, never leaving this moment.

Kenma wiggles out from underneath him, wrinkling his nose and gathering their discarded clothes. He would seem utterly unconscious of his nudity if it weren’t for the light pink dusting his cheeks. When Kuroo reaches for him, he bats his hands away.

“Don’t be gross,” he says. “We’re sticky. I’m going to go shower.”

Kuroo whines pitifully until Kenma kneels back down to push the hair back from his forehead, kissing Kuroo’s too warm skin. “Go back to bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll wake you when I’m done.”

The futon is too empty without him, but the sound of rain against the window is a hypnotic lullaby, and Kuroo nods off, stretched out and only half-covered by the blankets.

He doesn’t know how long he dozes before he’s woken by someone knocking against the door. He groans and turns over, suddenly uncomfortable with the mess they’d made of the sheets.

The bathroom door opens and Kenma emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing leggings and one of Kuroo’s flannels, combing through the long, wet strands of his golden hair. He ignores Kuroo when Kuroo reaches for him, rolling his eyes as he heads instead to the front door.

“Kenma,” Kuroo calls out, voice rough and deep. “Come back to bed.”

“ _Oh_ ,” someone else calls out, sounding utterly delighted. “When did _this_ happen?”

Kuroo sits straight up, looking straight across the apartment to the now open front door, where Yaku and Lev are standing, both drenched with rain. Lev is hiding his laughter behind one hand as Kenma glares at him, and Yaku simply meets Kuroo’s eyes and lifts one skeptical eyebrow.

“What the fuck,” Kuroo grumbles, abandoning the sheets to make a mad dash for the bathroom.

From behind the closed door, he hears Kenma say, “You really should call before coming over.”

It takes him fifteen minutes of hot water and furiously scrubbing at his skin before he’s ready to face the world, again. Someone—Kenma—had made off with his shirt, so he emerges from the bathroom dressed only in jeans and an undershirt, his hair slicked wet to his forehead. The apartment is conspicuously empty, except for Yaku, sitting daintily at their small kitchen table.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kuroo growls, scrounging around in the cupboards for mugs. The ones they have are mostly mismatched, novelty items emblazoned with 1up mushrooms and various Pokémon. “Coffee?”

“It’s past noon,” Yaku informs him. “But sure. Kenma and Lev went to go get us all some lunch.”

Kuroo rolls his eyes as he boils water, eventually setting a mug down in front of Yaku and taking the chair opposite him. “Is there a reason you’re ruining my perfect weekend?”

Yaku leans back in his chair, socked feet dangling. He’s dressed up, Kuroo realizes belatedly—his shirt was probably nicely pressed this morning, before the rain got to it, and he’s wearing the watch his parents got him for his high school graduation on his wrist. He looks up at Kuroo and smiles, somewhat sheepishly.

“Lev wanted to have a picnic.”

Kuroo laughs unattractively. “And lover boy didn’t think to check the weather, first?”

Yaku glares. “I don’t want to hear that from you. We only came here because it was closest. And at least he takes some initiative.”

This morning still seems like something out of a dream, memories bright like an over-exposed photograph. Kuroo licks over his bottom lip and chews on the inside of his cheek. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

“Oh, come on. You guys moved in together almost a year ago, and it took you this long to make a move. You’re hopeless, Kuroo.”

He wonders if he should be offended. It’s certainly easy for Yaku to get a rise out of him, and always has been, but over the years Kuroo’s come to appreciate Yaku’s particular wisdom. As maddening as it is, he’s usually right.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, the thing of it is…”

“Don’t tell me,” Yaku cuts him off. “You didn’t even make the first move, did you?”

“Like you can say that to me,” Kuroo shoots back. “You never would’ve told Lev how you felt, before he confessed to you.”

“That was different,” Yaku insists. “I was two years older than him, and then I was in college while he was still in high school!”

“You’re still two years older than him,” Kuroo points out, smirking as he misses the point on purpose.

Yaku doesn’t let Kuroo derail him. “You don’t even have that excuse. And I’ve known you and Kenma too long to think that these feelings didn’t exist, before today.”

There’s a truth in what he says. Kuroo’s chest feels too small to contain his heart, beating giddily against his ribs. Even if he falls into his usual back and forth with Yaku, everything is different today.

“It’s not like that,” he says softly. He cups both hands around his mug, looking into the dregs of his coffee. “It’s like… I couldn’t even let myself think of it before, you know? I couldn’t let my mind even go there, because it would’ve been unbearable, to know and not be able to do anything about it.”

Yaku shakes his head, kicking at Kuroo’s legs under the table. “Oh my god,” he says. “You’re going to be hopeless now, aren’t you?”

“You know, I wish Kai had found out first. He would’ve been supportive.”

“You don’t need supportive. You need someone who’ll keep you from being an ass.”

Kuroo tilts his head back and laughs. “Yeah, probably.”

Yaku’s silent for a moment, and when Kuroo looks back at him he finds his friend shifting almost nervously, tilting back and forth in his seat and staring too intently at the water-stained ceiling.

“What is it?” Kuroo asks, leaning forward.

“This is so embarrassing,” Yaku mutters to himself, before he seems to find his courage. His voice is soft, like he can’t bear to ask the question aloud. “What was it like?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, don’t give me details, or anything, but— was it good? The sex?” Yaku’s face is redder than Nekoma’s team jerseys.

Kuroo presses his lips into a thin line, willing himself not to laugh or choke. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, come on. It’s a perfectly normal question!”

“You’ve been dating the same guy for a year, Yakkun. You definitely don’t need me to tell you sex is good.” At least, the singular experience he’s had with it had been good. Logically, he realizes that he and Kenma probably got there too quickly. But another part of his brain asserts that they’ve always been in each other’s orbits, growing impossibly closer, and nothing could’ve been more natural.

Yaku covers his face in both of his hands. “We haven’t— that is— we’re taking things slow, alright?”

Kuroo knows that this would be a terrible time to laugh. He does so, anyway.

“Shut up!” Yaku hisses, reaching across the small table to grip into Kuroo’s shoulder and shake him mercilessly. “I’m being serious, here!”

Despite Yaku’s small stature, he’s physically overwhelming. Kuroo tries to catch his breath but can’t stop laughing, and Yaku shaking him really isn’t helping. He pulls away, one hand pressed into his stomach as he forces the air back into his lungs.

“So?” he asks wheezily, “Who’s idea was it? Is Lev trying to court you like some old time Russian Grand Duke?”

Yaku blinks at him. “The most Russian thing about Lev is his name.”

“And his height,” Kuroo adds, voice almost longing. His own is nothing to scoff at, but just the way the average person looks at Lev on the volleyball court is something to envy.

“You’re definitely not allowed to say that to me,” Yaku mutters. “And it was my idea, okay? You know how he is, he’ll rush into anything if you let him. And these are things you should be sure about.”

Kuroo opens his mouth, about to ask how anyone could ever be entirely sure about things like this. But then he closes it again, because there’s nothing he feels more certain about than his feelings for Kenma.

After a moment’s careful pause, he asks, “But you love him, right?”

Yaku looks incredibly put-upon. “Obviously.”

“And you guys’ve been going strong for an entire year.” Kuroo strokes his chin, leaning into his role as trusted advisor. “I’m not saying you should jump the guy, but if you want to and he wants to, then…”

“Ugh.” Yaku rests his forehead against the kitchen table. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“I’m _always_ right, Yakkun.” He smirks for nobody’s benefit but his own, since Yaku isn’t look at him.

“I always hate you,” Yaku tells him immediately.

“So you admit I’m always right?” Kuroo reaches out to nudge Yaku in the shoulder.

“No.” Yaku tilts his head up just enough for Kuroo to see how utterly unimpressed he looks. “You do everything out of order, anyway.”

Kuroo’s still laughing when Kenma and Lev return, Lev’s arms laden with bags of takeout while Kenma has managed to end up carrying exactly nothing.

When he looks up and sees Kenma entering their apartment, casually toeing off his shoes and stowing his umbrella, Kuroo’s heart stutters. Kuroo’s flannel hangs loosely off Kenma’s shoulders, his fingertips just barely visible at the edges of his sleeves. He turns his head and catches Kuroo staring, shaking his head as he pads towards the kitchen table.

“There’s not enough room for all of us to eat, here,” he says, reaching out and running one hand through Kuroo’s slightly damp hair as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Go clear out the main room, Kuro.”

Kuroo leans into his touch, nodding. Kenma runs his hand through Kuroo’s hair once more before pulling him up, nudging him towards the main part of their apartment.

“And put a shirt on,” Kenma mumbles after him, as Kuroo moves to follow his instructions.

“I would’ve before, if someone hadn’t stolen mine.”

Kuroo glances back to see Kenma just blinking at him, as if to say, _How is that my problem, at all?_

Kuroo stuffs the futon into the closet and lays out a clean sheet, and the four of them lay out a picnic of styrofoam boxes and bottle drinks. They lean their backs against the window as they eat, the rain still coming down and setting a gentle tempo.

The apartment is still too warm, the atmosphere humid and sticky. But the air is also full of laughter and affection and three separate voices saying, “Shut up, Lev,” at odd intervals, and so it’s just about perfect.

—

The apartment fills up with the detritus of a life lived together. There’s a calendar pinned to the fridge, Kuroo’s careful notations in red and black ink showing the dates of exams, volleyball matches, and visits from his mother or Kenma’s parents. Kenma keeps a library of takeout menus in one of the kitchen drawers, and they tape notes to each of them— the bold outline of five hearts, various amounts of them filled in with red to signal how good the restaurant’s curry and rice was.

Kuroo cooks, generally, and Kenma’s in charge of laundry and sweeping. He tells Kuroo once, softly, that he likes the simply, rhythmic movements of cleaning. As the space clears of dirt and clutter, his mind is cleared, too. He can’t stand the unpredictability of cooking, how even when he follows a recipe exactly it might not turn out as it’s supposed to. Kuroo can’t entirely sympathize there, since cooking seems to him like an extension of chemistry— predictable ingredients have predictable, but imperfect, reactions. He likes a bit of uncertainty and excitement, even if the result is Kenma eating his way through a half-cooked apple pie when his first few attempts come closer to failure than success.

Kenma comes home one day with not one, but two cats, small and curled around each other for warmth in the small cardboard box Kenma’s carrying. Kuroo scoops the light brown one out of the box, startling at its vibrant green eyes. He strokes two fingers along the cat’s spine, melting as she purrs against him.

Kenma rarely does anything without forethought, so when Kuroo turns to him with a single cocked brow he looks almost sheepish.

“Aerith,” he says, nodding to the cat in Kuroo’s arms. He gently pulls the second, pure black and sleeping, out of the box. “This is Zack.”

Kuroo knows better than to question Kenma’s choices, has always entirely trusted Kenma’s judgment. So he just nods and nuzzles his cheek against Aerith’s fur. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Welcome home.”

He looks up when a light flashes above him— Kenma has Zack balanced in the crook of one arm as he takes a picture, his now-free hand clutching his cell phone. Kuroo smirks, but declines to comment.

About a week after his twenty-first birthday, he lives to regret the cats’ presence. After a grueling organic chemistry exam, he comes home and drops his bag by the door, only just remembering to slip out of his sneakers before he falls face first against the futon. Exhausted, he barely registers the motion when Aerith climbs into the blankets beside him and curls up. She doesn’t have the same presence or warmth as Kenma, but she’s a good substitute. Kuroo sighs contentedly and prepares to drift off to sleep.

Then Zack decides to join in, and sits himself down on top of Kuroo’s head.

“Asshole,” Kuroo mutters, voice raspy. He doesn’t have the heart to remove the cat, though, and within a few moments he’s fallen asleep anyway.

He’s woken up sometime later by someone shaking him insistently.

“Kuro.”

“Mm?” He turns over, wincing slightly as the cats, disturbed by the motion, step over him in their efforts to readjust themselves.

“ _Kuro_ ,” the voice says, firmer than before. “Get up, get up.”

It still takes him a bit of time to orient himself, for the fog of sleep to lift enough for him to blink open his eyes and find Kenma crouching over him.

“What’s going on?” he says around a yawn.

“We’re going to be late,” Kenma says. His eyes are bright and glowing, his cheeks slightly flushed as though he’d run the entire way home. It’s rare to see that sort of light in Kenma’s eyes— he’d had it when they’d played against Karasuno at Nationals, and there’s usually a muted version of it present when he and Kuroo kiss. But right now, his face looks so vibrant and excited it can only really mean—

“Oh, shit,” Kuroo groans, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I totally forgot.”

“You have ten minutes,” Kenma informs him, and then he goes to wait by the front door.

Kuroo shakes himself free of Zack and Aerith, wobbling slightly as he gets to his feet. In what he views as a remarkable show of talent, he’s able to wash his face, brush his teeth, and be mostly dressed all within nine and a half minutes. He’s lacing up his shoes when Kenma starts tapping his foot impatiently.

“You said I had ten minutes,” Kuroo complains as Kenma pushes him out the door. He’s got only one arm in the sleeve of his leather jacket, the red hoodie underneath it half-unzipped.

Kenma pauses only to give Kuroo a murderous look. “I am going to be first in line,” he says, calmly and clearly.

Kuroo holds up his hands in defeat. “I know, I know.” When they reach the street, he grabs Kenma by the elbow and breaks into a run, laughing at Kenma’s indignant squawk of protest.

To Kuroo’s credit, they do make it to one of the largest gaming stores in Tokyo in record time, and Kenma is first in line for the store’s special midnight opening.

The queue fills up behind them quickly, and as the sun begins to set Kuroo glances around before spotting a fast food restaurant across the street.

“I’ll go grab us some dinner, yeah?” he says to Kenma, who looks at him as though he couldn’t possibly think of food at a time like this. Kuroo grins and prepares to head over, anyway, but then he notices Kenma tilting his head up slightly. Kuroo bites down on a much more tender smile and presses his lips briefly to Kenma’s temple. “Be right back.”

It ends up taking him half an hour to wait through the line and make his way back to the store, arms laden with a bag of MOS burger while he balances two soft drinks. But instead of going directly back to their spot in line, Kuroo pauses a few feet away on the sidewalk for a moment.

The sun has almost completely set by this point, the Tokyo night lit up with neon lights under a purple sky. The storefront is completely illuminated, larger-than-life posters hung from the windows with today’s date blazoned across the forms of characters who stand in battle-ready poses. And underneath them, at the head of the line, stands Kenma.

The night air is cool, but he’s dressed in an overlong black cardigan that drapes down to his knees, belted at his waist. The t-shirt he wears underneath is white, a stylized blue heart at its center and a small golden crown above that. Kenma is clearly trying to stand still, but Kuroo can still see the nervous habits in his slight motions— the way he shifts from one foot to the other every few moments, the gentle curl and uncurl of his fingers at his sides. But he looks straight ahead at the digital clock hung over the store’s main entrance, ticking down the time to midnight.

Kenma isn’t a particularly demonstrative person. Kuroo has always known this, since the first time he dragged Kenma out of his bedroom to play volleyball and Kenma had endured it with muted grumbling. They’ve known each other so long that Kuroo knows Kenma’s tells, however. Even the slightest widening of his eyes or the tilt of his head speaks volumes to Kuroo, now.

And while Kenma isn’t generally a fan of physical contact, Kuroo has become one of the few exceptions to that rule. Kenma does like routine, and stability. Kuroo gets a kiss every morning, and one every night. Sex between them is gentle and leisurely— never quite routine, always a little exciting. They’ve never sat down to put a label on what they feel for each other, but Kuroo knows exactly what that feeling is.

The time ticks down, indicating five more hours until the store opens. And Kenma’s eyes shine at the thought, his face turned upwards to gaze at the posters, his lips curved into a shy, private little smile.

Kuroo knows without a doubt that seeing Kenma happy is more important than anything else. It’s often a hard won battle, because Kenma expresses discomfort and irritation and uncertainty more than simple happiness. But in moments like these, when Kuroo can read the excitement on Kenma’s face, he knows that each small moment is worth it.

The sight of Kenma’s tiny smiles must be what love is.

Kenma turns at that moment to catch Kuroo’s gaze across the few feet that separate them. His lips pull down into a slight frown, his brow furrowing as he tries to figure out why Kuroo is paused there instead of returning to his side.

He needn’t really worry. Kuroo is always going to return to his side, or Kenma will come to his. Like the pull of satellites, the gravity between them is too strong.

Kuroo steps over the roped barrier holding the queue close to the side of the building and holds up the bag of MOS Burger triumphantly.

“No need to praise me,” he says cheekily. “Your savior has arrived.”

Kenma bites the inside of his cheek, too excited and charged up to come up with his typical dry response. Instead he grabs the bag from Kuroo’s hand and digs through it, pulling out the smaller of the two burgers and unwrapping the clean white paper from it with careful hands.

Kuroo sits down against the side of the building, retrieving the bag and grabbing his own burger as Kenma settles at his side.

“So, how many hours is this game supposed to be, anyway?”

Kenma pauses between small, deliberate bites. “Maybe sixty, seventy hours. It depends on how much side content there is.”

“So basically I’m not going to see you for three days.” Kuroo shakes his head self-pityingly.

Kenma considers this, taking a sip of his drink. “You can watch,” he decides at length. “As long as you don’t make stupid comments.”

Kuroo barks out an indignant laugh. “My commentary is golden,” he insists. “You _love_ it. It thoroughly enriches your playing experience.”

Kenma licks over his lips. “You can comment on the replay. Not the first time through.”

“You’re so cruel to me.”

Kenma sets down his drink and turns to fully face Kuroo, amusement pulling at his lips even as his eyes spark with ire. “I’ve been waiting for this game longer than I had to wait for you to kiss me, the first time,” he says, as though stating a simple fact. “Right now, it is more important than you are.”

Kuroo laughs, putting one arm around Kenma’s shoulders and pulling him close. “You know that didn’t have to be a one-sided effort, right?”

Kenma shakes his head. “Everything with you is too much effort.” He hides a yawn behind his hand.

“And yet you keep me around,” Kuroo notes.

“I’ve gotten used to you,” Kenma says with a shrug. To anyone else, the sentiment might have seemed dismissive, or even cruel. But Kuroo knows that Kenma doesn’t get used to anything he doesn’t want to, and that when he does it means it’s something he truly values, because he lets it into his comfortable routines.

They pass the next few hours quietly, Kuroo talking and Kenma playing games on his 3DS. Occasionally, Kenma will perk up at the conversations of the people in line behind them, putting in an astute comment or two about which worlds this game will have, or how the plot will turn out. Kuroo, who remembers a time when Kenma could never talk to strangers, even about something he loves, looks on and smiles.

At 10:30, Kenma’s given up on his game and is tapping through his phone while Kuroo lays his head in Kenma’s lap and dozes softly.

Kenma startles, suddenly, shaking in a way that Kuroo realizes is the beginnings of a laugh, deep in his chest.

“Huh?” he asks, turning over and looking up at Kenma.

Kenma has his lips pursed, looking intently at his phone. Wordlessly, he passes it over to Kuroo.

It’s on of Lev’s social media profiles, Kuroo realizes immediately. The proliferance of caps lock proves that immediately. The topmost post is a picture of Yaku, eyelids heavy as he leans back against the headboard of a large, western-style bed that Kuroo recognizes as Lev’s. Though still fully dressed, it’s clear than Yaku’s on the verge of sleep, his mouth slack even as he smiles.

Lev’s captioned the picture: _One hour until our anniversary’s over! I don’t think Mori-san will make it to midnight._

Kuroo smiles softly as he scrolls down to see a serious of other pictures, all dated from today. There’s Yaku and Lev enjoying a fancy and ostensibly expensive dinner. There’s Yaku and Lev taking a walk in a public garden, Lev tugging at the stems of sunflowers while Yaku takes the picture. Then, Yaku and Lev at the zoo, Lev mimicking the wide-jawed roar of the lions. And more, Yaku and Lev on a Ferris wheel, only their fingertips visible in the picture as they capture the view from the top.

It’s been two years, Kuroo remembers idly, since Lev’s very public confession. And since then, it seems like he and Yaku have progressed in gentle stages, going through things in the proper order. Yaku had texted Kuroo last week, asking frantically whether he should ask Lev to move in with him.

 _If you haven’t killed him in two years of dating, I don’t see why you would if he moved in now,_ Kuroo had responded. _Go for it._

He’d even helped Yaku buy the small, satin-lined box to place his extra key in. Looking at the pictures, it seems like Yaku hasn’t asked the question just yet. Kuroo anticipates the flood of new pictures when it happens, Lev’s joy overflowing and almost tangible.

“Anniversaries, huh,” Kuroo mumbles, turning Kenma’s phone over and over in his hand.

Kenma gives Kuroo a questioning look.

“I was just thinking,” Kuroo starts, the thought forming as he voices it aloud, “Do we have an anniversary?”

Kenma blinks at him.

It probably isn’t a fair question. Kenma has never liked ascribing labels and boundaries to his relationships. Kuroo thinks that part of the reason is because Kenma connects to people too poignantly— his friendships deeper than the word allows for, his bonds inherently more emotional than social norms typically allow for. Kenma, for all that he is placid and cerebral, is an emotional person. And Kuroo knows that’s why he distances himself from most feelings. He’d quickly become overwhelmed, otherwise.

“It’s just,” Kuroo starts again, the thought catching like a fishhook and digging in, “We never really talk about this stuff, you know? I could take you out to fancy dinners, or we could do things like Yaku and Lev do, couldn’t we?”

“Why would we do things like Yaku and Lev do them?” Kenma asks.

“I mean, not just like them,” Kuroo amends. “But like… couple-y things. I want to know when our anniversary is.”

Kenma’s silent for a long moment. It’s not that Kuroo hasn’t made overtures like this before. Most days, he’s comfortable with his relationship with Kenma as it is. As long as they’re close, and together, and happy, the rest of it doesn’t matter. And he doesn’t have some burning desire to be a couple out of a shoujo manga. At least, not usually.

“I thought that was what this was,” Kenma says, softly.

Kuroo feels like someone’s thrown a heavy weight onto his chest. All of a sudden, he feels ashamed. Today is something that means something to Kenma, and he’d been insistent that Kuroo come with him, share it with him. And Kuroo does the same, tugging Kenma along to every one of his university volleyball matches, making sure they study together in the library, curling up close together every night.

They are part and parcel of nearly every aspect of each other’s lives. And Kuroo feels ashamed, because for a moment he looked at someone else’s life and measured his own against it, and found his lacking.

He must truly be the most ungrateful person on earth.

He’s still holding onto Kenma’s cell phone, the screen gone dark as it’s been idle. Gently, he thumbs against the home button, watching it light up to reveal Kenma’s lock screen.

It’s a picture of Kuroo from a few months ago. His face is nuzzled against Aerith’s fur, on the night that Kenma had first brought the cats home. Kuroo’s eyes are half-closed, his gaze soft and his smile entirely genuine.

“What’s this?” he asks, his voice hoarse as he holds the phone up to Kenma.

And Kenma turns as pink as the sky at sunrise, snatching back the phone and shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. “Nothing,” he says simply.

“Kenma,” Kuroo whines. “I thought your lock screen was always a picture of Noctis, your one true love.”

Kenma shakes his head, laying his hand against Kuroo’s head where it still lies in his lap. “I like that picture,” he says.

Kuroo is about to ask why, but Kenma beats him to it.

“You look happy,” he says simply. “And that’s… important to me.”

The heaviness lifts from his chest all at once. It’s probably true that no one will ever understand him as well as Kenma does, that no one will ever understand Kenma as well as he does. It’s a simple and natural conclusion, but it means something.

“Oh,” Kuroo says.

“Mm,” Kenma agrees, running one hand through Kuroo’s hair.

The timer counts down to zero, and the rest of their conversation is drowned out by a fanfare composed by Shimomura Yoko.

A few hours later, Kuroo is once again lying down with his head in Kenma’s lap. But they’re home, now, Zack and Aerith curled up together in one corner as Kenma sits cross-legged, holding a PS4 controller over Kuroo’s head.

Kingdom Hearts III is a loud game. Kuroo’s barely aware of the overworld themes bleeding into the battle songs, because despite the volume he’s still halfway to sleep. He turns his head and buries his face against the soft cotton of Kenma’s t-shirt, smiling to himself when Kenma readjusts without grumbling.

When he wakes up the next morning, Kenma’s still playing his new game and Kuroo has a crick in his neck. But he smiles to himself as he makes them both a hearty breakfast, and the smile only widens when he checks his phone and sees a text message from Yaku—

_He said yes._  
_Lev is going to move into my apartment._  
_Oh my god, was this a terrible idea?_

Kuroo laughs, and when Kenma shushes him, he feels light as air.

—

The lights in the restaurant are glaring, the music so loud that he’d long ago stopped hearing it as anything more than a dull beat in the peripheries of his perception. Alcohol sits comfortably in his stomach, and Kuroo is deliriously, drunkenly happy.

Kenma sits on one side of him, nursing the same drink he’s been sipping at all night, surveying the party with something softer than disapproval. The lights shine off of his recently-bleached hair, black roots just barely visible. He slumps forward, elbows against the table, while Kuroo is leaning back on two legs of his chair, head against the wall.

For the moment, however, Kenma does not occupy the whole of his attention. Kuroo turns to his other side, where Yaku has been reduced to a slouched mess against the table. Luckily, Kai had managed to clear away the dishes before his chin had hit the surface.

“Doing all right there?” Kuroo asks him, reaching out to ruffle Yaku’s hair. If his friend had been anything resembling sober, he wouldn’t have allowed such treatment.

Instead of protesting, however, he groans and glances up, across the restaurant. Lev is standing up on a chair, surrounded by Hinata Shouyou, Goshiki Tsutomu, and Yamamoto, who are all encouraging him to keep drinking at increasingly loud volumes. Shibayama and Inuoka stand off to one side, looking ready to catch Lev’s long body between them should he happen to fall over.

Yaku props his chin against his hands, elbows on the table, and sighs. “I’m going to kill him,” he grumbles.

“Oh,” Kuroo says mildly, “that’s not a very nice to thing to say about your fiancé.”

Yaku groans louder, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I mean it,” he says menacingly. “I love him so much, I’m going to kill him.”

“Maybe wait until after the wedding?” Kuroo suggests. “Alisa-san might kill you if you ruin all of her planning.”

Yaku considers this, teeth grinding as though he’s actually rolling the words around in his mouth before he speaks them. “Alisa-san is the best,” he says finally. “I’m not going to do anything to make her unhappy.”

“So you’re not going to kill Lev,” Kuroo tells him.

Yaku pouts. “I guess not.”

Kuroo leans further back in his chair, enjoying the split-second of dangerous weightlessness he feels before finding equilibrium. “So, why do you want to kill him? Like, specifically at this moment. I know it’s a general thing, with you.”

For a moment, Yaku just stares across the room, his warm brown eyes gone hazy and rimmed with red. “I can’t stand it,” he says finally, in a hushed voice.

“Hmm?” Kuroo prompts, after Yaku is silent for a moment.

Yaku makes an elaborate, incomprehensible gesture with his hands. “It’s just— he— and _me_ — you know?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Maybe being more drunk would help, Kuroo decides, reaching for his beer.

“He loves me so much,” Yaku says, words slurring together. “He wants to _marry_ me.”

“That is why we’re having this party,” Kuroo confirms. “Though I think the bachelors are each supposed to have separate ones? Maybe we fucked that part up.”

But Yaku isn’t paying much attention to Kuroo’s words. He staring down at his own drink, as though he can divine something about himself through his tiny, rippling reflection.

“I don’t know what I do to deserve how much he loves me,” Yaku says quietly, sincerely.

Before Kuroo can answer, he feels Kenma startle beside him. Something flashes in his cat-like eyes, more than just the reflection of the too-bright lights. He leans forward, across Kuroo, and flicks Yaku gently in the forehead.

“Why would you even say something like that,” he asks quietly.

Yaku pouts at him, his cheeks round and red. “Because,” he says. “Because I’m worried that I’ll wake up and it’ll be a dream, or something. Or he’ll realize that he’s everything good about us.”

Kenma frowns severely. “That’s stupid,” he declares. Kuroo’s about to speak, to intervene, but Kenma isn’t done. “Love isn’t deserved, it just is.”

It’s one of the most romantic things Kuroo has ever heard Kenma say. And it isn’t directed at him at all.

Kuroo clears his throat. “Besides, Yakkun, you really think he filled your apartment with a thousand roses and that weird Russian orchestra music because you’re not worth it, or something? Don’t be stupid,” he says, picking up on Kenma’s phrasing. “You love him as much as he loves you. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Yaku slumps back down against the table, all of the tension leaving him abruptly. “I love him so much,” he tells Kuroo and Kenma, too earnest to be anything but genuine.

Kuroo laughs, yanking Yaku up by one arm. “Go tell him, then.” He gives Yaku a gentle shove towards the other table, and watches with amusement as Yaku stumbles his way through the crowd of their friends, eventually reaching Lev’s chair. Lev sees Yaku immediately, tossing his empty glass off to Hinata so that he can scoop Yaku up in his arms.

It’s almost disgustingly sweet, but it suits them. Their day-to-day relationship is full of Yaku’s barbs and Lev’s oblivious insults, and so moments like this, when they wrap up in each other, are still precious.

“You have that look on your face,” Kenma says from beside him.

“Hm?”

“That look. Like you’re going to float away, or do something stupid.”

Kuroo huffs his indignation, finally letting all four of his chair’s legs hit the floor with a satisfying thump. “I can’t float away,” he tells Kenma seriously. “I’m too big.”

“I know,” Kenma says flatly. “You refused to move and let me out of bed this morning. But that just means you’re going to do something stupid.”

“You’re very mean to me,” Kuroo says, teasingly.

Kenma sucks his cheeks inward. “What are you thinking about?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I could, Kuro.”

Kuroo frowns at that. Kenma’s perceptions about people are nearly clairvoyant, and what Kuroo is thinking about now is fairly obvious.

“You know,” he says, drawing out the words. “Weddings.”

“Kuro,” Kenma says, a little frantically.

“I just think it might be nice,” Kuroo continues, bolstered by alcohol. “Not some big fancy western wedding, like Yaku and Lev, but something more like us.”

Kenma’s fingers fidget in his lap, interlacing and separating at intervals. He’s quiet too long.

“Well?” Kuroo prompts him. “Do you want to get married, too?”

This time, the silence lasts for only half a moment. Kenma looks up, eyes half-lidded under the glaring lights, and meets Kuroo’s gaze evenly.

“No,” he says simply.

“Oh,” Kuroo says, once his drink-addled mind has processed this.

“Kuro,” Kenma starts, but Kuroo’s already on his feet.

“Cool,” Kuroo says. “That’s fine.” He stumbles across the room to where Yaku is now sandwiched between Lev and Shibayama, all three of them drinking and chattering. He pulls out the chair beside Lev and pulls the mug of beer towards himself.

The party doesn’t end for hours. When the restaurant’s cleared out and the guests have all gone their separate ways, Kenma and Kuroo are left on the sidewalk in the chill night air. Kuroo looks at Kenma and frowns, then turns and starts heading for home. He feels Kenma fall in step beside him a moment later.

He can only stand the stale silence for a moment.

“What is this,” he asks Kenma, his voice hollow.

Kenma looks up at him, blinking twice in rapid succession. “What?”

Kuroo throws out a hand. “What are we heading towards? What even are we, right now?”

“We’re us,” Kenma tells him, but he makes a face as though he’s just stepped on broken glass.

“I don’t know what that even means,” Kuroo grows, yanking at his hair.

Kenma looks up at him somewhat helplessly. “We don’t need— I don’t—”

Kuroo waits, patiently, for an explanation. But it doesn’t come. Kenma stumbles over his words, and then gives up entirely.

“You know I’m bad at explaining things,” he mutters, mutinously.

For the first time, that isn’t good enough for Kuroo. He takes two steps back, then pivots on his heel and begins walking in the direction opposite from home.

“Kuro!” Kenma calls after him, his soft voice carrying in the stale night air.

“Just— I just need to think,” Kuroo says, voice loud enough to be heard even though he doesn’t turn around.

“You’re drunk,” Kenma tells him.

“I’ll be fine.” He keeps walking. It’s the first time he’s ever turned away from Kenma.

He’s not really aware of how far he walks. The buildings around him are vaguely familiar, the neon signs burning against his aching eyes and his head swimming with the details. His feet keep moving, even though he’d left both his mind and his heart far behind him.

He comes to a bench along his path and collapses down onto it, tilting his head up to look at the sky. He remembers his visits to Miyagi in high school, and how bright and clear the stars had been, far away from the polluting static of Tokyo. Now he looks up and doesn’t know which lights are stars and which are airplanes, what’s real and what’s just illusion.

It shouldn’t hurt this badly. He’s always prided himself on being the person who understands Kenma best, the one who never pushes him further than he can go. And yet, tonight he’d wanted something from Kenma that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give him.

Maybe the problem is that he doesn’t know which it is. He’s taken Kenma’s presence at his side for granted. There had been no tense moments of anticipation before confessions, between them. He’d never had to stop and worry if Kenma loved him, too, because that fact was established and immutable.

He thinks of Yaku and Lev, probably home and asleep together, waiting to embark on the rest of their lives side by side.

He’s never had to think of the future in that way, with Kenma. Their lives have been intertwined for so long that going together is natural, a given. It’s not something he needs to declare because it’s already obvious.

Kuroo groans and pitches forward, his head in his hands as he steadies his elbows against his knees. His head aches, the pressure behind his eyes constant and painful. He doesn’t care about the future. Right now, drunk under the stars, all he wants is Kenma and this moment.

His way home is a blurred and stumbling path. But it’s one he’s walked so many times before, either with Kenma at his side or to reach him, and so he makes it there eventually.

Their apartment is the first door on the fifth floor. Kuroo makes it there by muscle memory and then fumbles with his keys, louder than he intends to be when he finally staggers in through the doorway. The room is dark, illuminated only by the dull city lights visible through the large window. Kenma must already be asleep.

He pulls off his shoes, then his socks, his jacket and his jeans. His t-shirt and boxers cling too close to his skin, and probably smell like beer. But he’s barely aware of these facts as he heads from the entryway to the main room, already thinking about where they’d stashed that second futon years ago. The thought of it finally getting use is a startling pain, like someone is slowly burying a knife in his chest. He begins to head for the closet, and then startles.

Kenma isn’t asleep. He sitting cross-legged on their futon, Zack curled up in his lap. Kenma’s stroking the cat’s back absently, but there’s no real intent to his movements. His eyes are wide and unseeing, round with anxiety. They flicker once to Kuroo and then back to Zack, and he lets out a soft sigh like it’s being forced out of him, like he can’t help himself.

Kenma’s always been a bit of an insomniac. Kuroo doesn’t know whether he trained himself into a nocturnal routine as a child, staying up and playing video games, or if staring at screens for so long every day just makes it impossible for him to sleep, or if it’s something else entirely. Usually Kuroo’s the first one asleep, rousing slightly when Kenma finally crawls in beside him.

Now, he’s acutely aware of how long Kenma’s been awake, of how long he’s been sitting here, waiting for Kuroo to return.

All of the fight and tension bleed out of him abruptly. Kuroo turns towards Kenma, words caught in his throat, and falls to his knees in front of him. He makes a move to reach for him, and then stops short, hand frozen in midair.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, voice hoarse. “Kenma, I’m so, so sorry.”

Kenma has never liked facing conflict head-on. He’ll sidestep it if he can, or turn and head in the other direction if he can’t. It’s always Kuroo who steps forward, needling and prodding people until they snap and put up a fight. It never really gets that far, with Kenma, who gives up or convinces Kuroo over to his side before things get truly tense between them.

Kuroo has no will to fight, right now. He knows things are unsettled between them, like an electric current running beneath his skin and between them.

Zack climbs out of Kenma’s lap and darts away when Kenma looks up. “Why are you apologizing,” he murmurs.

Something snaps. Kuroo lunges forward, wraps his arms around Kenma’s shoulders and pulls him as close as he can, as though he can force their bodies to meld together, as though he can pour all of his emotions into this one gesture.

Kenma sighs again, soft and sad, and brings his hands up to the back of Kuroo’s neck. He pulls back only enough to give him room to find Kuroo’s lips, to kiss him feverishly and insistently. They always take their time, with these things, but right now it seems as though Kenma fears that Kuroo’s going to float away, will stop being solid if Kenma stops touching him, stops kissing him, for even a moment.

Kuroo’s always known how Kenma feels about him. But maybe this is the first time he’s felt it as a physical sensation, threatening to burn him up.

“Oh,” Kuroo groans, pulling back only to catch his breath. Kenma’s pulling him forward and pushing him back, until he’s flat on his back amongst their blankets. His heart is beating fast enough to pound through his chest. “Kenma…”

Kenma drapes himself over Kuroo, tucking his head near Kuroo’s shoulder and biting down hard on his collarbone when he’s dragged the collar of Kuroo’s shirt out of the way.

A siren is blaring somewhere in the back of Kuroo’s mind. Is this right? Should they be doing this when they’re angry, when they’ve just had a fight? But a softer impulse quiets the first, telling him that it wasn’t anger he had felt. It was loneliness, and longing, and the only thing that could possibly alleviate that sort of pain is having Kenma as close to him as possible.

“You should,” Kuroo gasps out, breathing hard, “you should fuck me.”

Kenma sits back for a moment, straddling Kuroo’s hips, and blinks at him. The room is still dark, the lights filtering in through the window barely enough to reflect in Kenma’s amber eyes. The shifting glow is hypnotic, like the flickering white of a flame.

“You want me to?” Kenma asks, as if Kuroo isn’t already spread out beneath him, waiting to take whatever Kenma wants to give him. As if that isn’t always the case, if not always as literally.

“Yes,” Kuroo sighs, reaching out and taking both of Kenma’s hands in his, squeezing. “Always.”

Kenma’s irises look liquid now, molten wax still catching the light of the flame. He nods, once, and leans down to kiss Kuroo’s forehead, then his lips. The kiss is long and searching, Kenma’s tongue tracing over each of Kuroo’s teeth and the roof of his mouth as Kuroo sighs and lets his hands rest against Kenma’s shoulders.

Kenma doesn’t rush, but there’s something frantic and unrelenting about their pace. Kenma retreats for a moment to retrieve the lube from one of their low shelves, then strips Kuroo with gentle efficiency before shucking his own shirt and boxers. He barely takes a moment to himself before beginning to coax Kuroo open, his fingers dexterous and determined—setter’s fingers. Kuroo hasn’t done this enough times to be used to the sensation, and his thighs tremble as he struggles to keep his reactions in check.

Kenma pauses, tilting his head as he considers Kuroo carefully. He runs one hand down Kuroo’s leg, from the juncture of his hip to his knee, softly tracing patterns into the soft skin of Kuroo’s inner thigh. Kuroo shivers at the sensation, moans softly when Kenma leans down to suck a hickey on the spot. Kuroo bites down on his lower lip, sure that he’s about to draw blood.

Kenma sits back after a moment, frowning slightly. “Why do you always hold back with me?”

It isn’t a conscious decision. Kuroo’s always kept his most private thoughts and emotions close to the chest, because he’s a strategist. He waits to see how much people can handle from him, or what reaction he specifically wants, before he lets go. With Kenma, it’s not so much a strategy as a balancing game, giving up just enough of his heart that he doesn’t overwhelm Kenma with more than he can handle, or wants.

Maybe that’s what he’d done wrong earlier tonight, Kuroo realizes. He’d let the drinks loosen his tongue, clumsily giving up words that could only lead to forever.

Suddenly Kenma’s hand is under his chin, forcing his head up. “ _Kuro_.”

Kuroo blinks at him, feeling light-headed. He loves Kenma so much. There’s no way he could’ve held all of this in forever. It’s a depth of emotion that’s too deep to contain, building up against the dam he’s kept shoring up for the past four years, and maybe even longer than that.

Kenma tilts his head down slowly, resting his forehead against Kuroo’s. “Whatever it is you think you have to do, don’t.”

He releases his hold on Kuroo’s chin, and the hand that’s been lingering by Kuroo’s hole returns there, pushing more insistently against muscle now. Kuroo doesn’t have time to respond, or even to think, as Kenma slides in with three fingers and stretches him.

“Good—ah—Kenma,” he stutters, words escaping from behind clenched teeth.

“Yes?” As if it’s the easiest thing in the world, as if Kuroo can’t feel Kenma’s hardness against his thigh.

“Ready,” Kuroo says, breathlessly. “I’m ready.”

For a few moments, Kenma continues fingering him without pausing, as if he doesn’t believe Kuroo’s words. Kuroo throws back his head and sobs when Kenma pushes against his prostate, pressing against it relentlessly as Kuroo gives up on holding anything in and moans, loudly, eyes clenched shut.

Kenma finally pulls his fingers out, adjusting his position on top of Kuroo so that his cock is pressed right at Kuroo’s entrance, not quite breaching him.

“You always accept everything, with me,” Kenma says quietly, his fingertips soft against Kuroo’s cheek, his voice soft and tender. He presses himself inside of Kuroo, and Kuroo shakes his head, his breath a hiccupping sob. Kenma keeps petting his cheek as he slides in further, until he’s fully inside of Kuroo. “I want to be that for you, too.”

Kuroo is almost positive that the smoldering embers that Kenma’s been stoking patiently have just ignited. He feels warm all over, and it isn’t bad but it’s a _lot_ , sensation that pools in his stomach as Kenma begins to move, unhurried but unceasing.

“Love you,” Kuroo sputters, when Kenma begins to stroke Kuroo’s cock in time to his movements. “Love you so much, Kenma.”

Kenma hums, his skin rosy all over as he climbs towards orgasm, his movements fumbling slightly as the feeling overcomes him, as well.

“Stay with me forever,” Kuroo says, covering Kenma’s hand against his cheek with one of his own, holding it there. “Don’t leave, okay?”

“I won’t,” Kenma sighs, punctuating the promise with a particularly hard thrust. Kuroo keens, and Kenma moves faster. The feeling in Kuroo’s stomach spirals, tighter and tighter, until he’s not aware of anything but Kenma above him and inside of him, his affection filling the air around them like fog.

It feels like the first time, something out of a dream, except Kenma can only be real, the way Kuroo feels him right now. Kuroo finds he prefers it this way.

Kuroo whines as he gets closer to the edge, pulling Kenma down so that he can kiss him sloppily just as he comes. Kenma fucks him through it, the kiss going off center as Kenma digs his nails into Kuroo’s shoulders and comes, too, with a hissing sigh.

They both collapse onto the futon, sticky and sated. Kenma lies against Kuroo’s bare chest, gently shifted by way Kuroo heaves through the first few difficult breaths. Kuroo’s dimly aware of points of discomfort—the mess across his stomach and between his legs, the slight soreness he feels, the ache at the base of his skull that will soon erupt into a full hangover. But overpowering that is the stillness of this moment, when Kenma lifts his head to gaze at Kuroo through hazy eyes.

“I love you, too,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. And, isn’t it?

\--

There’s a growing pile of boxes in one corner of the apartment, the stacks of clutter cleared out and carefully labelled— Kenma’s video games, Kenma’s video game controllers, Kenma’s game pre-1995, etc, etc. Kuroo has a few boxes, mostly of clothes and books and his volleyball gear. Eventually, they’ll have to start packing the dishes and their mismatched furniture and bedding. But not tonight.

Kenma has his laptop balanced on the tiny kitchen table, typing away furiously while Kuroo makes his way through the kitchen, an overfull pot simmering on the stove.

“Why’re you working so hard?” Kuroo asks as he passes, reaching around Kenma to retrieve a wooden spoon. “You don’t start until next week.”

Kenma looks up and shrugs, trying to affect nonchalance. “I’m not working that hard.”

“You are,” Kuroo croons, stepping closer to tap lightly at the spot between Kenma’s eyes. “See? Your brow’s furrowed, and everything. You’re really, really serious about this, aren’t you?”

Kenma frowns at him. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” Kuroo insists, turning away to add salt and paprika to his concoction on the stove.

“I’m not,” Kenma says.

“You _are_ ,” Kuroo singsongs.

“You’re impossible,” Kenma grumbles, turning back to his laptop.

“Impossible to resist, I know.” Kuroo doesn’t hear what unflattering comment Kenma mutters under his breath, but he laughs loudly anyway. By this point, he can assume the gist of it, anyway.

It’s a quiet afternoon, the cats curled up in their blanketed basket as the sun glows golden-yellow from outside the window. It’s the first clear day they’ve had in over a week. It takes Kuroo a few hours to prepare the meal, and then Kenma takes over cleaning the kitchen while Kuroo takes a scalding shower and tries to rub the scent of spices out of his skin.

When he emerges from the bathroom, toweling off his hair, the apartment is as clean as it can be with the boxes stacked to one side, taking up space. Kenma’s back to his spot on the kitchen table, now set for four. He’s abandoned his laptop, and is just checking his phone.

“Any word?” Kuroo asks.

“They left Yaku’s parents’ house an hour ago,” Kenma says softly. “They should be here soon.”

And, right on cue, there’s a knock at the door. When Kuroo opens the door for them, Yaku and Lev burst into the entryway, cheeks flushed red and postures relaxed in a way that can only mean they’ve been on vacation for the past two weeks. Yaku, at least, would never look so content otherwise.

“Welcome back,” Kenma says, peeking out from behind the low wall that separates the kitchen from the rest of the apartment.

“Kenma-san!” Lev crosses the space between them in three quick strides, stooping to pulls Kenma into a tight hug. Kenma sighs in resignation, but brings his arms up to return the embrace, if a little less enthusiastically. “I missed you so much!”

Yaku laughs behind his hand, then leans over to elbow Kuroo in the side. “I guess I missed you, too.”

“I guess I’m touched by the thought, Yakkun,” Kuroo says, not missed the opportunity to ruffle Yaku’s hair and make him grimace.

Despite the expression, marriage suits him well. It isn’t anything that can be legally recognized for them, and Kuroo’s not really sure how they played it when they took their vacation to Russia. But as the four of them sit down to dinner and Lev launches into a vivid retelling of everything from the airplane food to the tour of the Kremlin, Yaku leans slightly against his side and smiles.

They aren’t overtly affectionate, throughout the meal. It’s more casual than that. Lev will lean over to snatch a piece of food off of Yaku’s plate, and Yaku will interrupt Lev’s story at intervals to correct the details. Kuroo notices the way they react to things as if in tandem, like objects in space given location by their proximity and interconnected orbits. Like having someone by your side helps you make sense of your own place in the world.

Oh, Kuroo thinks halfway through the meal, that’s how he and Kenma have always been.

After dinner, they sit on cushions and against the bare wall while Kenma helps Lev display his pictures from the trip on their TV. Kuroo brings over a tray laden with apple crumble and tea, and they have dessert while Lev continues his commentary, this time with visual aides.

Kenma sits tucked against Kuroo’s side, eating his way through his own serving of the pie and then proceeds to steal more than half of Kuroo’s, too.

“You know we have extra, right?” Kuroo needles him, smirking.

Kenma just shrugs and stabs the last morsel with his fork, bringing it to his lips.

At the end of the night, the four of them stand again in the entryway. Lev has an arm draped casually around Yaku’s waist, slumping slightly with fatigue. Yaku looks up at him every once in awhile and blinks, smiling, like he can’t quite believe what’s in front of him.

Kuroo knows what he’s seeing— two people who are utterly committed to one another, and have no more reason to question that fact.

“You guys are so domestic,” Yaku says to Kuroo, wrinkling his nose even though he’s smiling.

Kuroo lifts both of his brows. “Says the married man?”

Yaku shrugs, laughing. “It’ll be weird, you know? You moving out of this place. I’ve gotten used to it, over the years.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says, turning to contemplate the apartment. It’s small enough that he can see most of it from his vantage point, and the ghosts of five years’ worth of memories, as well. “I think we all did. Right, Kenma?”

Kenma looks unimpressed by all of the sentiment. “We’ll get used to something new, now.”

They see Yaku and Lev off, promising to invite them over to their new place as soon as they’re settled. When they’re alone again, Kuroo returns to the main room and slumps down onto the pillows.

“That was exhausting,” he says. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be your housewife, Kenma.”

Kenma sits close beside him, one hand resting lightly on Kuroo’s back. “Don’t be stupid,” he says.

Kuroo huffs, shifting against his throne of cushions. “Did you mean that, though?”

“Hm?”

“You’re not going to miss this place, at all?”

Something in Kuroo stirs a little with rebellion. He loves this place, loves most everything that has happened to him since he’s lived here. And he can read it on Kenma’s face, most days, how he feels about the home they’ve made together. Somedays, though, it would be nice to hear him admit it.

Kenma sighs tiredly, the way he does when he thinks Kuroo’s being particularly stupid.

“What’s that for?” Kuroo frowns.

“Remember when you asked me to marry you?” Kenma asks, apropos of nothing.

Kuroo winces. “I thought we promised never to talk about that, again.” He thinks he understands Kenma better, now, and that that particular fight doesn’t hurt so much anymore. But it still makes him feel embarrassed, and maybe a little lost.

“But you remember,” Kenma tells him. “I couldn’t… I wasn’t good at explaining why I said no.”

“That’s okay.” Kuroo is quick to assure him. “I mean, look at Yaku and Lev. They did everything the traditional way, yeah? But that’s not how we’ve done things, ever.”

“No,” Kenma says softly. “It’s not. We went out of order.”

“So we don’t need to get married, either,” Kuroo says.

Kenma pauses, like he’s thinking of the precise way he wants to phrase his next words. Kuroo doesn’t interrupt, giving him time.

“I don’t like being noticed by people,” Kenma says. “I don’t like doing things just to fit in, or because everyone is doing them that way.”

Kuroo just nods, and after another brief pause Kenma continues.

“Having a wedding would be for other people. To tell them, or prove to them, how much we love each other.”

Kuroo thinks about that. Weddings _are_ spectacles, even when they’re kept small. When Bokuto and Akaashi had eloped, the fanfare after they’d come back had been almost more than it would’ve been if they’d had a large wedding. Kuroo still hasn’t quite forgiven Bokuto for running off to Hawai’i and not telling him until afterwards. 

“I think there’s more to it than that,” Kuroo starts to say, but Kenma just holds up a hand.

“For some people. But I don’t need… I don’t need you to tell me how much you love me, that way. I already know.”

Kenma looks up at him, and his eyes are shining. It’s the same way that he’s looked at Kuroo a million times before, but now it suddenly seems more potent. It’s a look that speaks to the kind of focus and intensity that Kenma gives to very few things in his life, and yet Kuroo is one of them.

“I just… I don’t want that.” Kenma says the words plainly, and it’s clear that in a year’s time he hasn’t once thought about changing his mind on the issue. But he turns to Kuroo almost apologetically and asks, “Is that alright?”

Kuroo swallows thickly. “Of course it is,” he says, because it’s been a year, and he hasn’t once felt unhappy with Kenma in all of that time. Kuroo cups Kenma’s face in his hands, pulling him in for a soft, sweet kiss that leaves them both sighing in its aftermath. Kenma slumps forward against Kuroo, arms tight around his waist.

“I’m not sad we’re moving,” Kenma says after a moment. “We’ve needed a bigger place for a while.”

“It’s cozy,” Kuroo protests, defensively. “I _like_ it here.”

As though sensing that Kuroo is about to become indignant on their home’s behalf, Kenma pokes at his side. “I know that.”

“So, what?” Kuroo asks. “You don’t like it here?”

Kenma clenches his teeth, frustrated not with Kuroo but with himself. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Indulge me for a bit, okay? Tell me exactly what you meant.”

Kenma huffs, like he’s once again frustrated with Kuroo for being so slow on the uptake. Kuroo doesn’t know if that assessment is exactly fair—he’s always thought of himself as rather smart, after all—but Kenma looks at him like once again, he’s missing the point.

“I had what I needed before I ever moved in here,” Kenma says slowly, almost shyly. His cheeks are tinged a rosy pink, and he buries his face against Kuroo’s neck. Kuroo feels the soft tickle of Kenma’s breath, a whispering sensation that feels like home. He strokes one hand through Kenma’s hair, the soothing motion as natural as breathing to him.

“So?” Kuroo prompts, after a moment.

Kenma pushes himself up so that they’re looking each other in the eyes again. He smiles, hopelessly and sincerely, and Kuroo falls a little bit more in love with him in that brief moment.

“You’re my home, Kuro,” Kenma says, the smile never leaving his face. “That’s always been enough.”

It must be something Kuroo has always known, because hearing the fact said aloud doesn’t shake his foundations. Zack and Aerith are curled up in one corner of the apartment, dozing quietly, while Kenma lays on top of Kuroo and confesses something that has always been a part of them both. It fills Kuroo with a strange lightness, the smile coming over his features before he’s even aware of it.

“Yeah,” he says, voice tight. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always appreciated, and you can come talk to me on [tumblr](http://newamsterdame.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/newamsterdame).


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